


Strong and Broken

by tastethewaste



Category: Rocketman (2019), Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Drinking, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Self-Harm, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2020-07-11 11:43:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19927519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastethewaste/pseuds/tastethewaste
Summary: Richard is mesmerized by Taron, at his easy confidence, at the way he seems like he can conquer the world. He is mesmerized by other things, too.





	1. Chapter 1

Richard’s drinking a beer and relaxing in his flat when his phone lights up from across the room. “Tomorrow, Abbey Road, 9 a.m. Want you to meet Taron and go over some things, see you then.” The text from Dex Fletcher comes through at 10 p.m. and Richard scans it quickly. It’s quite like Dex to spring things on him last minute, but it’s not a problem. He has nothing else going on, and he’s excited to start work on _Rocketman_. His work on _Bodyguard_ has been fulfilling, to be sure, but playing John Reid is something new for him, playing the villain, and he’s excited. 

He begins to pace the apartment, though, and a small part of his brain, in the very back, tells him he’s a bloody idiot. Richard’s struggled silently with his anxiety for years, putting on a brave face. This industry is cold and unforgiving, and there’s no room in it for people who take the times between takes to hyperventilate in their trailer or pick nervously at their own skin. He does what he can to manage it and keep himself completely in control. So he smokes compulsively, and pastes shaky smiles on his face, and hides his clammy hands; he takes the occasional pharmaceutical, when he doesn’t need to be in the thick of things. He does most of these things unconsciously, his brain protecting him by lying to himself, telling himself he is a calm man, a composed man, a man completely in control of every situation. He has hidden it well so far, and as of yet there have been no scathing reports in the news about Richard Madden, the dishy actor with the mental health issues.

The idea of meeting Taron Egerton shouldn’t be anything nerve-wracking for him. People have been telling him for ages that he and Taron would like each other, and he’s seen a few things Egerton’s been in-his favorite was _Eddie the Eagle_ , he had a sort of awkward charm in that one-and the boy’s talented, there’s no question. 

Richard finishes the beer he’s been nursing, pops out on his patio for a quick cigarette and then goes to bed. Big day tomorrow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He arrives at Abbey Road promptly at 8:55-he’s always early, his own personal philosophy is that if you’re not early, you’re late-and shakes Dex’s hand. 

“Richard! Thanks for coming in, sorry for the short notice.” Richard waves him off. 

“Ay, no problem. No worries. Ready to get started,” Richard says, and Dex smiles back at him. “Taron here yet?” 

“Oh, he’ll be along soon,” Dex says, and Richard nods amiably. 

By 9:17, Taron still hasn’t arrived, and Richard’s doing his best to hide his annoyance. It is not unheard of in this business for people to exist on their own timetables, but Richard doesn’t operate that way and as much as he _tries_ to not be uptight, it annoys him. He drinks from his bottle of luke-warm water and fidgets with the label, trying not to pace. Trying to stay in control. 

And then Taron walks in.

Richard thinks, for just a moment, that he has never seen anyone walk so confidently in his life. Taron strides in through the studio doors easily, a huge smile plastered on his face, and he looks as if he is already completely comfortable. Richard knows they haven’t started shooting just yet, Taron’s only been starting to record a bit, and that this is all still new to him, too. Yet this young man has just strode into Abbey Road, one of the most famous recording studios in the world, as if he owns the place. _And, he’s 20 minutes late_ , Richard thinks in surprise. 

“I know, I know, I’m sorry I’m late, Dex, but you won’t believe what’s happened to me this morning--” Taron begins, holding his arms up in exasperation, and Dex cuts him off. 

“You’re right, I know I won’t believe it,” Dex says with a grin, and Taron embraces him amiably. “Your lazy arse stayed in bed as late as possible, that’s the whole of it.” 

Taron smiles and shrugs sheepishly, but there’s no truth in the sheepishness, he’s not embarrassed at all. Richard wonders if the boy’s ever been embarrassed in his life. “You’re right, I’m sorry,” Taron says, but Dexter claps him on the back and just points him in Richard’s direction. 

“T, I’d like to introduce you to someone. This is Richard Madden, he’s playing John Reid. Richard, this is Taron Egerton, our Elton,” Dex says with a smile. 

Before Richard can say anything, anything at all, Taron has grabbed his hand and is shaking it enthusiastically. “ _Brilliant_ to meet you, mate! I’ve heard such lovely things about you, people have told me we’d get on for years so I’m thrilled to finally meet you. This shirt is _fantastic_ ,” Taron says, reaching out and fingering the soft blue fabric of Richard’s shirt. 

The simple truth is that Richard is blown away by this man, by his enthusiasm, by his grace, by his self-confidence. If anyone else had shown up late, pumped his hand up and down enthusiastically, then complimented his _shirt_ , he would have thought they were taking the piss, mocking him. But he can tell that Taron is completely sincere, completely genuine in his happiness and enthusiasm, and it brings a smile to Richard’s face. 

“Nice to meet you, too, mate!” Richard says, unable to stop himself from matching Taron’s grin. 

“Looking forward to working together,” Taron says happily, and Richard nods in return.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It doesn’t take long before Richard and Taron are inseparable. They both get on well with Jamie, of course, and find Charlie to be lovely, but the two are smitten with each other. They are total opposites in many ways: Richard is often quiet and reserved while Taron seems to have no off switch, constantly spinning and going. 

Rather than annoying him, Richard still finds it charming, and the two find themselves spending their evenings together, out at pubs or just holed up in their hotel rooms. Taron tells Richard of his upbringing in Wales, of his film career thus far, of what he’s loved doing and what he wouldn’t do again. He can chatter for hours, and Richard finds that he can listen for hours. 

And as he listens, as time goes on, Richard finds that Taron is so much more than a vivacious character of a man, so much more than an outgoing, confident actor. He tells Richard about his fears, his hopes, his worries. Richard realizes that Taron is not quite as confident as he always seems, that’s it an act sometimes, that he uses it as armor to protect himself. Richard feels like a fool for assuming his mate had no insecurities or issues or worries; he feels as though he has judged him. 

He is reminded of his own armor, the way he pretends that he is cool and unflappable, while inside his brain is sometimes screaming for a release. He hasn’t told Taron about any of this, not yet. When Taron asks about him, he tells him the truth, but he leaves his anxiety out of it. He tells him about his own upbringing near Glasgow, about his family and his friends, and he laughs when Taron begs him to spill secrets on _Game of Thrones_. 

He cannot bring himself to tell Taron about his real fears, about how sometimes he pushes himself so far in a scene that he feels like puking after, about how his brain sometimes feels like it’s vibrating with the anxiety that pulses through it, about how he sometimes lays in bed after a long day of shooting and just stares at the wall, unable to move or think or speak because if he does, he feels like he’ll crack in half. 

Sometimes when he watches Taron speak, he thinks he’ll be able to confide in him eventually. _Now’s just not the right time,_ he sometimes thinks as he watches his best mate’s smile light up a room. He wonders what’s holding him back; it’s not as if Taron, or their relationship, could ever be misconstrued as not intimate. 

Then one day he realizes what is it, what’s holding him back. They’ve just finished filming a scene in which Reid and Elton are having a fight about Reid’s infidelity. It takes hours, and it’s draining, and when it’s finally done, Richard feels as if he’s so empty that he’ll collapse if someone so much as looks at him the wrong way. He’s worried that he buggered up the whole thing, that it looks like shit, and he wants to claw his own skin off. Instead, he pastes a shaky smile onto his face and hugs Taron back as the younger man barrels into him full force, hugging him tightly. 

“You are so _brilliant_ , Rich!” Taron crows, and that’s when Richard realizes why it’s been so hard for him to confide in Taron. T thinks he’s confident, thinks that he is cool and calm, and Richard doesn’t know if he can ever shatter that illusion. It would feel like a betrayal.

Richard’s not sure he can handle betraying his best mate, or looking weak in front of him. He’s also not sure if part of his reluctance has to do with the fact that he can’t stop thinking about Taron’s thighs, and his jawline, and the way that he looks in Elton’s hot pants when he’s sauntering around on set like he owns the damn place. 

He’s not sure what to do about that at all. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One night, they are in Richard’s room, and they’ve split a six pack of beer and moved onto the bottle of tequila Richard was gifted for his birthday, and they’re both sloppy and drunk. The lighting is low, and so are Richard’s inhibitions. The booze has dulled all the sharp corners of his brain, the ones that are normally screaming at him. Taron’s smiling and Richard wants to push him up against the mini bar and grab his arse and grind up against his--

No. He is drunk, but he is not stupid. Making a move on the man he is starring in a film with, when he’s never confessed to _anyone_ that he fancies blokes, that’s too much, even for drunk him. But as he watches Taron wax and wane about football and video games and whatever else he’s prattling on about, Richard wishes he wouldn’t smile so much. It is everything he can do to control himself. 

They toss themselves wearily on the couch, and Richard knocks back another shot of tequila before refilling Taron’s glass. 

“‘S up, Dickie? You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Taron slurs, reaching over and fingering the button on Richard’s shirt. Richard’s feels his face grow hot, and is grateful for the alcohol to blame if it came down to it. 

“Nothing, I’m just fine,” he mutters, crossing his legs. 

“You know how amazing you are? Seriously,” Taron asks, swallowing another drink from his glass, turning his moony, glazed-over eyes onto Richard and grinning. “You’re one of the most talented people I’ve ever been around. And I’ve worked with _Colin Firth_ and _Hugh Jackman_. Seriously, you impress me more than fucking Wolverine. _WOLVERINE._ ” 

Richard laughed. “You’re drunk, mate.” 

“Yeah, I am, but I mean it, y’know? You’re incredible and I’m so glad we met. There’s nothing you can’t do, Richie, I mean it.” Suddenly, Taron is leaning over on the sofa and his lips are on Richard’s and Richard’s heart is pounding in his chest, out of control. Taron tastes like mozzarella sticks and tequila with the faintest aftertaste of beer, and it’s not unpleasant at all, it’s intoxicating, and his tongue pushes gently into Richard’s mouth, and his hand snakes around the back of Richard’s neck. It is confident and effortless, as if they’ve been kissing each other for years, and Richard closes his eyes, breathes in the scent of him. He matches his kiss urgently. 

And then it’s over, and Taron is leaning back on the couch and smiling, crossing his arms over his chest. His belly is slightly rounded from the fried foods and booze he’s poured down his throat that evening, and as he closes his eyes, Richard has to restrain himself from rolling over, sitting on Taron’s lap and continuing what his rotten friend has just started. 

Neither of them say anything, though, and moments later Taron’s snores fill the small hotel room as he drifts off into drunken sleep. Richard departs the couch and stumbles into his adjacent suite, falling into his bed with his clothes still on and joining Taron in sleep, unable to focus on what’s just happened.


	2. Chapter 2

If someone would have asked Richard what his reaction would be if Taron kissed him out of the blue, his answer would not have been “go to sleep”. He would have bet money on the likelihood of his pacing around the hotel room, chain-smoking cigarettes and overanalyzing everything. He would have assumed there would be an ill-hidden panic attack and crying at play. 

Instead...he sleeps. 

He sleeps like a baby, he sleeps better than he’s slept in ages. He doesn’t get up to go to the bathroom, he doesn’t toss and turn, he just...sleeps. 

When he wakes up, he is disoriented from sleeping so hard. He looks around, trying to gather where he’s at, and realizes he’s in his hotel. The heavy blackout curtains on the windows have blocked out all the light and bustle from the city; instead of shining out, it shines down, casting a glow across the carpet. Richard fumbles for his phone, sees that it’s already 11:30. He’s slept for almost twelve hours and he supposes he needed it, after the grueling filming schedule they’ve been at. 

As he lays in bed, the reality of his hangover starts to set in and he lets out a groan. The foggy headache hits him first, and then his stomach starts churning, begging him to let go of its contents. He wills himself to calm down, takes a few sips from the glass of water he almost always keeps by his bed. He closes his eyes again. 

That’s when the memory of the evening before comes back. Taron drunkenly singing his praises and fingering the button on his shirt lovingly. Taron leaning over and kissing him urgently, pushing his tongue gently into Richard’s mouth. The taste of tequila, harsh and bitter, flooding their mouths. Richard’s heart slamming in his chest. Taron falling asleep on the sofa moments later, a smile on his face. 

When he feels like he’s not in danger of puking, Richard rolls out of bed. He pads slowly into the adjacent living quarters of his hotel suite, not sure what he’s hoping for. Part of him hopes that Taron is gone, unable to imagine what they could possibly say to each other after the evening prior. The other part of him hopes that he’s there, still asleep. Richard wants to see him. He _always_ wants to see him. 

When he makes it out to the living room, his heart sinks at the sight of the empty area. He’s alone, like he usually is, and it hurts. Taron’s left no trace of himself other than the empty tequila bottle and the glasses they’d shared, and Richard would be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed. 

_It’s for the best,_ he thinks to himself as he collects the glasses and deposits them in the sink; the smell of old tequila wafts up and he thinks for a moment that he might vomit this time, then it passes. _What on earth would we say? What would we do?_

He sinks onto the sofa gently, avoiding the spot where T had been last night. _We’d have had breakfast,_ he thinks. _I’d have cooked him breakfast, pancakes and eggs and maybe some bacon if my stomach could handle it. I’d have warmed up his syrup the way he likes it. I’d have tucked a napkin into his shirt. I’d have kissed him myself, lips sticky and both of us hungover and my hand on his thigh._

Richard realizes he is blushing, his hands are twisted up in the fabric of his t shirt, his cock is hard. He is also imagining a scenario that he is certain will never happen. 

_But what if it could?_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Richard takes a shower, slowly, his head still pounding and his belly threatening to give up its contents if he makes too sudden of a movement. _Not 22 anymore,_ he tells himself, then resents himself for thinking it. While he showers, he wonders if he should text Taron. He can’t for the life of him think of what to say, though. 

_Had fun last night._ Too on the nose. 

_So what was that about yesterday?_ Too confrontational and bold.

_You’re hot and I also can’t stop thinking about cuddling with you._ For obvious reasons, that one is a no. 

As usual, T surprises him, and as usual, T is the bold one. Richard checks his phone after his shower, after he’s changed into sweats and a cozy t-shirt, and sees a text from Taron. His heart flutters in his chest and he feels like a bloody teenager, like the first time he’d crushed on a boy from school. His hands are even _shaking_ as he opens the message.

_I feel like shit, mate. How you faring? x_

A loaded question, all things considered. He settles for being vague. 

_Same, feel like crap._

Taron’s response comes almost instantly, and Richard reads it with the same shaking hands. 

_Come eat with me._

Richard considers saying no, unsure of what he would be walking into. But he has never said no to Taron, and he knows he is bloody useless at resisting him. The idea of turning down an invitation, missing a chance to see that smile, is unthinkable. Because the truth is that Richard doesn’t just _like_ Taron, he likes him. He enjoys his company, loves being around him. They make each other laugh, and Richard has few friends in the industry that he’s gotten this close with this fast. 

All other things aside, of course. 

_Be there in ten._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Richard considers the idea of not changing out of his scrubby lounge clothes and nixes the idea almost instantly. He goes for quasi-casual, changing into his _presentable_ sweatpants-a must for every person who is both a chronic homebody and a great sufferer of anxiety-and a t-shirt with no holes in it. It’s considerably tighter than the other one, and if he’s being honest, he knows he looks good in it. 

He wonders if they will pretend like nothing happened. He wonders if he can handle that. 

He knocks on Taron’s door and isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or salivate when it’s opened. It’s clear that dress code should not have been at the forefront of his mind. Taron comes to the door in nothing but his tight boxer briefs and a t-shirt. His face is flushed, his eyes are bloodshot and he looks like hell. 

“You _do_ look like shit, mate,” Richard says with a chuckle. 

“Get in here before somebody takes a picture,” Taron mutters, yanking Richard in by the scruff of his shirt. “Tequila doesn’t agree with me. At all. Have a seat, room service just left.” He gestures to a table full of food. 

For the next thirty minutes, it seems like they _are_ going to pretend like nothing happened. Richard decides midway through their meal that Taron probably doesn’t remember it; they’d both drank so much, but Richard has been cursed with a weird bear trap of a mind that never lets anything go, no matter the circumstances. 

They eat in mostly companionable silence, the kind of quiet that isn’t uncomfortable when you’re with someone who you truly trust. They occasionally break the silence with chatter about something stupid, chuckling here and there. Richard can tell that Taron feels like crap, though, and he is not his usual upbeat self. 

While they eat, Richard looks at Taron. He is just so _perfect_ , Richard thinks. His hair is fluffy and cute and he wants to run his fingers through it, feel it. He’s got dimples when he smiles and it makes Richard weak in the knees, weak all over. Taron’s told Richard that part of the fun of this role is that he doesn’t have to stick to a strict diet and exercise regime like he had to for _Robin Hood_ and the _Kingsman_ movies, and he’s not chubby or anything but Richard supposes the right word is soft, he’s _soft_ and not muscular and he’s always preferred his men like that. He wants to touch him, everywhere, and it’s murder sitting across from him and not being able to. 

But it is also lovely, being around him. Even without the touching. 

When they’ve finished eating, Taron stacks the dishes outside the room and flops himself on the couch, a load moan escaping his lips. They watch a couple hours of telly, something stupid that Richard doesn’t pay attention to, and then he’s exhausted, the last stages of the hangover process, and he tells T he’s going to go take a nap at his own. 

“Sounds good, mate.” Taron walks him to the door, says, “See you on set tomorrow,” and then kisses him, and it’s like last night all over again but without the tequila. Richard answers his kiss eagerly, and Taron’s hands are on his hips, and it’s maddening. 

He finally breaks the kiss apart, gasping and feeling his face go red. “What are you _doing_?” He asks, and it sounds like he’s mad but he’s not. He just can’t figure out what the _hell_ is going on. 

And Taron...Taron is grinning.


	3. Chapter 3

Taron’s smiles are positively contagious, so when Taron grins at Richard after kissing him, unprovoked, sober and in the light of day, Richard cannot resist answering back with a smile of his own. Taron is sly and sassy and Richard wants to shove him up against the door and grind against him. He has no fucking idea what’s going on, but he likes it and he can tell that Taron _knows_ he likes it, and it is maddening. _Cheeky bastard._

“I _said_ , what are you doing?” Richard asks, his arms crossed, and he wonders if it gives the illusion that he’s angry because he’s not, it’s just the only thing stopped him from doing what he wants and pushing Taron backwards towards the bedroom. 

“Well, it doesn’t seem to matter what I’m doing, if that grin of yours means anything at all,” Taron says, wiggling his eyebrows at Richard, and _God_ , he is hot. “Did you like it? I bet you did.”

Richard is flustered, again, which he supposes was probably Taron’s intent, it usually is. “I-well, fuck, I--” He blushes as Taron laughs at him. “Don’t _laugh_ at me, for Christ’s sake…” 

“Oh, come on, Rich, I’m not laughing at you, you adorable bastard,” Taron says, that same maddening smile still on his face, and he moves forward and kisses him again, softly, the complete opposite of the insistent kiss from last night and from moments before. It is gentle, and Richard finds himself uncrossing his arms and wrapping his arms around Taron’s waist, pulling him close. 

Richard doesn’t know how things progress, isn’t sure how Taron’s hands end up on his ass or how he’s slid his hand down Taron’s thigh, but they’re both hard and still kissing and there’s tongue and Taron’s biting his lip and _fuck_ \--it is everything Richard’s been imagining these last few months, while he’s been secretly thinking about kissing his best friend like a fourteen year old boy who’s just discovered his first boner. 

“You...have...a… _magnificent_...ass,” Taron whispers, punctuating each word with a small, sloppy kiss. Richard’s blush flames up again, his cheeks turning pink, and Taron smiles. “And you’re modest, apparently.” 

Richard impulsively buries his face into Taron’s shoulder, unable to look at him, afraid that he’ll do something insane like cry or scream or have a bloody panic attack. This is nice, and all, but he is overwhelmed, and when Richard is overwhelmed, he tends to shut down. Taron doesn’t know this, of course, because he’s hidden it from him thus far, and Richard isn’t wild about the idea of Taron finding out about his anxiety issues like this. Not wild about it at all. Luckily, Taron seems to take it as nothing more than a cuddle, and he lays his hand gently on the back of Richard’s neck.

Richard knows he ought to say something, but he can’t. He wants to tell Taron that he’s been thinking about this for ages. He wants to say that his smile is impossible to ignore, and that every day on set he has to resist running his fingers through his hair. Fuck, he _really_ wants to say that Taron’s ass is more than magnificent, it’s a work of _art_ and it’s nothing at all compared to his fucking _thighs_. What he wants to tell Taron most of all is that even though he does like the idea of the two of them being physical together, it all started because he simply loves him as a _person_ , every part of him. 

Instead, all Richard’s anxious mind can allow him to squeak out is, “I thought you were straight.” Taron’s hands are squeezing his hips, hard, and there’s goosebumps on his arms. 

“I prefer not to put labels on it. I like _you_ , Rich, the fact that you’re a bloke doesn’t matter much to me,” Taron says nonchalantly, and Richard envies that. He has spent his entire life putting labels on everything and putting everything in its proper place. He’s very much a type A person, and has found it to be the only way he can manage the onslaught of anxiety triggers that race at him every day. Still, despite the labels and organization of his life, he has never been able to be honest with himself about his sexuality, and he envies Taron for the ease in which he has accepted himself. 

“Do you...like me, too?” Taron asks, and it is one of the only times that Richard has ever heard Taron sound vulnerable. It shocks him, that this man who confidently strides onto movie sets, who pours his soul out into scenes, who _sings_ with energy he has rarely heard before, who is unapologetically himself every single day, is feeling vulnerable about the way Richard feels about him. Especially because Richard has _liked him_ for ages. 

Richard pulls his head off of Taron’s shoulder and looks at him, really looks at him, and says, “Of course I bloody like you.” He aches to kiss Taron, brings his mouth as close as he can and then pulls away. It’s too much, this is all just _too much_. Twenty-four hours ago he was lusting after T like a teenager, and now this is real and he is in front of him and Richard is suddenly consumed with the worry that he will fuck this up. 

“You can kiss me, Rich,” Taron says softly, and his voice is so low and deep and it sends a zigzag of lightning straight through his belly. He is weak in the knees just by this boy’s voice, and that’s something new. That’s something that hasn’t happened before. He brings his mouth to Taron’s, slowly, gently, afraid. T’s joked before about Richard’s fluffy lips but his are just as soft, just as desirable in their own way. Rich is so happy, but--

He’s fucked up every relationship he’s ever had, though, and now he’s in Taron’s arms and he’s kissing Taron’s lips and it’s _too much_ and he knows that he will fuck this up, too. He’ll ruin his chances with T, the movie, his career. It’ll all be over, and he suddenly _can’t breathe_. His chest is tight, his lungs feel like they’re leaking, and he recognizes this feeling immediately. It’s what happens when he’s overwhelmed and scared, and he does his best to hide his shaky breath as he pulls away from Taron. 

“Is everything okay?” Taron asks, and Richard’s anxiety is so bad that he barely even registers how soft he looks in his tight briefs and white t-shirt. 

“Everything is, everything is fine, I just...you’re brilliant, okay? I’m happy I just...don’t feel good, tequila’s still making herself known,” Richard says, willing his hands to stop shaking at his sides. 

Taron tilts his head just slightly, and this is what Richard’s mind is willing to register, and it is amazing how much a simple head tilt can make him hot. “Well, you’re an old man, drinking in your thirties can be tricky,” he says with a teasing grin. 

Richard matches his grin shakily and nods. “I’ll...I’ll see you on set tomorrow?” Taron nods and before anything else can happen, Richard pushes his way out of Taron’s hotel room and heads back up to his own. 

When he gets there he is in full-on panic mode. His chest hurts, his palms are sweaty, and he can barely breathe. He tries to do some of the breathing exercises his old therapist had taught him, back when he had thought he could fix whatever-this-is, to no avail. All he can picture is how badly this could end, while being unable to ignore how _badly_ he wants this, wants Taron. His brain is at war with himself, and so he rummages around in his suitcase and fishes out a Xanax, downs it with the lukewarm water on his bedside table. 

As the pill begins to take effect, he is exhausted, more exhausted than he has been in ages, and he sinks into a deep sleep, his body finally relaxed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile, Taron is taking a hot shower, the water running in rivulets in his body, and the hangover has left him feeling exhausted, too. Thinking about Rich, though-those eyes, that jaw, and that positively _incredible_ ass of his-has got him hard, and he shrugs ever-so-slightly before taking matters into his own hands...literally. 

Afterwards, he takes a moment to consider that Rich had rushed out of there rather quickly, but chalks it up to the excuse he had made. Hangovers can be a bitch. _Mine ended alright, though,_ he thinks with a cheeky smile as he slides into a clean pair of pajamas and tucks in for the evening.


	4. Chapter 4

The Xanax knocks Richard out and he sleeps for the entire night, a blissfully dreamless sleep that his brain desperately needed. When he wakes up at six in the morning, he isn’t anxious anymore. He takes a moment to just lay in bed and stare at the ceiling, grateful for the fact that he’s not having a panic attack anymore. They don’t happen that often, not full-fledged blowouts where he can’t breathe and thinks he might _die_ , but when they do, they’re always intense and they scare him. 

Richard spends most of his days surviving with the anxiety that has plagued his life since his teens. It snuck in, unseen, and wrapped its tentacles around his mind and now this is just how things _are_. He is used to the days where just talking to people seems insurmountable, used to his hands shaking and his breath catching, used to nights lying in bed bathed in moonlight and thoughts of his own inadequacy. He is used to these things and he understands that in the industry he works in, with the life he has built, he has to keep these things under wraps...and he has to do that _alone_. He’s learned that the hard way. 

When he was fifteen and still a little chubby, he’d broken into acting, still carrying around old scars from a childhood of being bullied and hating his body. He’d started eating better and exercising more and then he landed his first role in a movie, and everything he’d ever dreamed of had started to happen. All he had _ever_ wanted was to be an actor, and he had high hopes that this would fix everything. It would fix the self-deprecation, the way the walls felt like they were sometimes closing in, the way he never felt good enough. It didn’t, but it was still everything he’d ever wanted, and he was still new at it, so he thought maybe everyone sometimes puked from nerves before shooting or had circular thoughts about their own inadequacies running through their mind. He figured they’d just...go away on their own.

By the time he was twenty-three, his anxiety hadn’t gone away on its own. It had only gotten worse, despite the lengthy hiatus from acting that he’d taken to try to coax his problems away. Then he’d landed an eight-episode arc on a television show and he thought that maybe _that_ would fix everything. He’d thought that his anxiety came from his lack of success, over the last few years, and he was excited. He was, therefore, disappointed when this role, which felt like a big deal, simply made things worse. He spent all of his free time holed up in his flat, pacing the floors back and forth and crying. He didn’t tell anyone what he was feeling, but conceded, on his own, that it might be time to give it up, ask for help, when he spent an entire evening talking himself out of jumping off of his roof after a particularly long day of shooting that hadn’t gone so well. 

He’d started seeing a therapist, who’d diagnosed him with an anxiety disorder and forced him to talk about his problems. It had helped, for a moment, until his director had gotten wind of it when he asked to leave early one day, begging off under the guise of a ‘doctor’s appointment’. 

“Won’t happen again, sir, I swear it,” Richard had said, biting his lower lip self-consciously. The director had narrowed his eyes at Richard and then spoken to him in a low voice. 

“Listen, don’t think I don’t see what’s going on. You’re not the first actor I’ve seen struggle with the pressures. I get it, it can be rough. But you’re bloody _talented_ , Rich. You actually have a shot at making it, if you work hard, but it’ll all be over if the press goes sniffing ‘round and finds out you’re a bit barmy. You just need to get out of your own head, suck it up, and keep going. Right?” 

Richard had gone home that night and thought it over. He knew the director had to be right. He was twenty-three, for Christ’s sake, it was time to get out of his own head and take responsibility for his actions, and he was choosing that his anxiety would no longer be an issue. He never went back to the therapist and just soldiered on. 

Of course, over the next ten years things haven’t gotten much better. Sure, he’s developed more coping mechanisms and gotten better at hiding it, but it’s still _hard_ , and it’s exhausting. When he has nights like the one yesterday, he thinks maybe he should try again, maybe he should admit that there’s something hideously, fatally wrong with him. 

But then, in the morning light, the memory of the panic attack fading and receding in the day, he pushes the thoughts away and goes about his life, telling himself that he’s _fine_ , this is all _fine_ , and he can handle it. 

He finally gets up, makes himself a cup of coffee, and checks his phone. At some point in the last ten minutes, a message from T’s come through, and he smiles involuntarily. 

_Mornin’ sunshine. Miss you x_

Richard shakes his head, still grinning like a fool. 

_Miss you too, dork._

Taron’s answer comes a moment later, as if he’s been hanging on to his phone and waiting for Richard’s reply, and it makes his stomach flutter just imagining it, just imagining Taron caring enough to hold onto his phone and wait for his answer. 

_Come see me_

_We have to be on set at 9_

_It’s 6:30 you little suckup. We’ve plenty of time_

Richard grins again, but the back of his mind reminds him that last night they’d come dangerously close to entering new territory, and he’d come dangerously close to completely melting down. He can’t afford to do that before they have to shoot for the day, and he’s in the middle of typing out _i’ll pop over after we’re done for the day_ when he hears a knock on his hotel room door. 

“You impatient bastard,” Richard mock-growls when he opens the door and sees Taron standing there, wearing pajama pants and slippers and the same white t-shirt from the day before. He is irresistible, this man in front of him, and Richard doesn’t think anymore about his panic attack or anxiety or their shooting schedule or what Dex or anyone else will think. At least not now. 

“You gonna invite me in, mate?” T asks with a sly grin, and Richard steps aside and lets him in.   
They waste no time today on a pretense of food or telly-watching, instead choosing to just launch right into it. Taron immediately snakes his hand around the back of Richard’s neck and kisses him, hard, forcing his tongue into the older man’s mouth. Richard’s mouth answers the call, doing the same, and his teeth are dragging along Taron’s lips and it is the single most passionate kiss Richard has ever had in his life, ever. 

They break apart, briefly, and they are both already breathing heavily and Richard is already starting to get hard. “I haven’t stopped fucking thinking about this,” Taron breathes into Richard’s ear, and he nods in response. 

“Me either,” he mutters, and Taron’s answering grin is downright _lecherous_. They are moving back towards the bedroom, Taron’s practically pushing him, and then he _is_ pushing him down onto the bed, on top of Richard, straddling him and kissing him. Richard starts fumbling with Taron’s shirt, and then Taron breaks apart, ripping it off himself. He then does the same for Richard, refusing to allow him to take his own shirt off, and then they are staring at each other, somehow both transfixed by the other’s body. 

“Oh, well, this just isn’t fair,” Taron whines, half-mockingly, as he looks at Richard’s body. 

“What you mean?” Richard asks, reaching up and kissing Taron insistently, eager for them to keep going. 

“You’re so perfect and fucking _hot_ , Rich-God, your _muscles_ \- and I look like a...like I haven’t lost my baby fat or something,” Taron says frustratingly, and Richard is amazed at how self-conscious he sounds. 

Richard chuckles and reaches up again, running his hands down Taron’s sides, squeezing his hips. He licks a trail from his chest all the way down and Taron’s body responds, shaking, his cock going hard. 

“I like you and your body just the way you are, love,” Richard says quietly, and Taron’s cheeks go pink and it’s so fucking _cute_ that Richard can barely stand it. 

Taron grins at Richard, that winning smile that sends Richard over the moon, and suddenly Taron’s hand is down his briefs and he isn’t thinking of anything but how _good_ it feels. 

Richard’s never officially been with a man before, he’s always been too afraid to make that leap, and this is maddening and scary and intoxicating and he has never felt like this before. His heart is pounding in his chest, which isn’t an unfamiliar feeling to him, but it’s different this time. His heart is pounding because he’s out of his mind with how turned on he is, and with the impact of having this lovely man whom he cares so much for on top of him. 

Taron tugs Richard’s briefs down, and he’s naked and he feels vulnerable. 

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Taron whispers, his voice husky with passion. He gives Richard one more sloppy kiss, then moves south, returning the act of licking him from head to toe. He makes eye contact, briefly, with Richard, wiggles his eyebrows and Richard almost laughs. 

_Cheeky_ little fucker, Richard thinks. Then Taron’s mouth is on his cock and all thinking about anything ceases. He’s good at what he’s doing, that much Richard knows, and if he were anywhere in his right mind he would have filed away the thought later, the thought that he knows so much more about this than Richard had originally assumed that he did. 

Richard’s hips snap up as Taron sucks him off, and he wishes he could tangle his fingers in his hair, but it’s far too short for that. Instead he grabs Taron’s back, digging his fingers in, and a low moan comes out of his mouth. As soon as he moans, Taron backs off, and Richard moans again, this time out of frustration. 

“T, I’m--” 

Taron’s lips are red and he looks like he’s out of his mind with the pleasure of what’s going on, and Richard is _entirely_ out of his mind. “Beg for me, baby,” he says quietly, and Richard doesn’t hesitate in the least. 

“ _Please, please_ , T, take care of me, I need you,” and that’s all it takes and Taron’s mouth is wrapped around his cock again, his hips bucking with pleasure. “Gonna come, T, I’m going to…”

And then his cock is shooting off in Taron’s mouth, and it’s messy and hot and his body is spasming in waves of pleasure. He moans again, and there is nothing left in him but a raw sensation of being empty, in a good way. There is nothing in him that is in pain, or sadness. He feels...complete. 

Afterwards, they lay together, sticky and spent and sweaty, and Taron has Richard in his arms. It’s the opposite of their scene in the movie, when Richard holds him afterwards, and Richard thinks that’s he never felt so calm in his whole life. He is drunk on this feeling, this feeling of being wanted and needed and cared for. They lay together as long as they can, until even Taron acknowledges that they should probably go have a shower and get their day started...even though the day has already started in many ways. 

Richard starts the shower and lets it warm up, watching Taron and wishing it could’ve gone on forever. “You...you’re good at that,” Richard says, his face flushing just a little. He is new at this, after all. 

Taron shrugs one shoulder, and he looks confident again, he looks like himself. He looks like a sly little asshole and Richard is positively mad about him. 

“Yeah, I know I am,” he says with a sexy wiggle of his eyebrows, and joins Richard in the shower.


	5. Chapter 5

Over the next few weeks they move quickly, and before Richard knows it they’re practically living together. He’s migrated most of his belongings from his suite to Taron’s; they’ve exchanged hotel keycards; they know the way the other takes his coffee and they wake up in their sunny bedroom, their bodies tangled together like a knot. It’s strange, Richard thinks, how easily they have fit into each other’s lives, especially since the last few weeks have shown him just how _different_ they are.

Taron is unabashed in almost every aspect of his life, and it blows Richard’s mind on an almost daily basis. The boy has no _shame_ , and he oozes confidence in everything he does, without ever coming off as cocky. Richard has practically made a career out of overthinking everything he does, so watching Taron move easily through life with assurance is mind-boggling. 

T walks around naked, or nearly naked, _all the time_. He starts shedding his clothes from the moment he walks in the door after filming. He’ll start by toeing off his sneakers and tugging his shirt off over his head on his way to the kitchen; by the time he emerges from the kitchen, a beer in one hand and a snack in the other, he’ll have shed his pants and will flop himself on the couch in nothing but his briefs. The first time Richard had observed this odd ritual, he’d simply stared, his mouth agape, until Taron noticed him staring and asked “Wha--?” with his mouth full of pretzels. 

He emerges from their bedroom stark naked in the morning and takes ages to put on _anything_. He cooks, eats breakfast and loafs around on the sofa completely in the buff, and thinks absolutely nothing of it. “Think you’ll put clothes on today?” Richard will ask, and Taron will just look at him with a lascivious grin and say “Sod off, you know you love it.” 

He’s right. 

Richard’s never considered himself a particularly _modest_ person; he’s not ashamed of his body, and has no problems with it beyond the childhood scars of growing up a little chubby. But his clothes typically stay on, in contrast to Taron’s. 

Richard’s also meticulously neat in comparison. T stands for _tornado_ , apparently, because that’s what he _is_. He’s a grown man who leaves dishes piled in the sink to the ceiling, clothes in heaps all over the floor, towels in a sopping wet mound in the bathroom corners. He spills food everywhere when he’s cooking, leaves sticky fingerprints on all the cabinets like a toddler, and Richard’s convinced that nothing the hotel does after they leave will ever clean the toothpaste splatter off the bathroom mirror. 

Yes, cohabitating with Taron is a lesson in patience for Richard, and a study in this man he’s found himself so smitten with. Because that’s the truth of it, he’s bloody _smitten_ with T, and he can’t figure out why everything he does is so adorable. He’s always snacking on something-pretzels, crisps, chocolates, popcorn-and then later lamenting about his stocky frame next to Richard’s lithe, fresh-from-the-gym physique. He chews with his mouth open and watches utter nonsense on telly that fries Richard’s brain cells. He has a nasty habit of playing his music as loudly as possible while Richard’s trying to sleep. His sleeping patterns are erratic at best; he’ll go for long stretches of time going to bed at two in the morning, and other days he’ll fall asleep on the couch at seven p.m. Sometimes Richard feels like he can’t quite keep up. 

And yet, somehow, _somehow_ , he finds himself quietly, desperately, _achingly_ falling in love with this perfect storm of a man. 

Richard has memorized every inch of Taron over the last few weeks, could write a book about everything. More than once he’s found himself lounging around with Taron, laying in bed, and he doesn’t realize that he’s just staring at him until Taron calls him out. “Stop _staring_ at me, you weirdo, you’re embarrassing me!” Taron’s said, with the cheeky little grin that drives Richard _mad_ and tells him that he doesn’t mind being stared at, not one bit.

He could spend ages telling the tales of Taron’s soft lips, his dimples, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled hard. He could dedicate a chapter to the birthmark that had left its imprint on his neck. Richard could describe every inch of his arms, his chest, his hips, his thighs. He could close his eyes and spin a yarn about Taron’s hair, how soft and fluffy it had been before they’d shaved it all for the movie. He could’ve written pages and pages of sonnets on that killer jawline of T’s, or his bum, a feature Taron is equally fond of on himself. 

Richard has fallen for Taron, but this doesn’t become apparent to him for a little while, and when it does, it’s for the stupidest reason. 

They’re watching telly, and Taron’s in nothing but his briefs (as usual). Richard’s arms are around Taron, and T’s getting sleepy. His head’s on Richard’s chest and his eyelids are drooping and _fuck_ , Richard hasn’t been this calm or comfortable in so long. He looks across the room and sees their shoes, by the door. Taron’s sneakers are collapsed on their side where he’s kicked them off, one of them resting on top of Richard’s oxfords. It strikes him, all at once, as he looks at their comingling shoes. Their lives have become as entwined as their bodies, and he’s...he’s falling for this man in his arms. 

As Taron snoozes gently, Richard starts to realize all the things he knows and loves about Taron, and he is aware of how little he has given of himself. He is affectionate-Lord knows-but he has revealed himself to T in dribs and drabs, never allowing full, entire parts of himself to be divulged. He is still afraid, he realizes, of Taron finding out about the anxiety that has inserted itself into his everyday life. He is still so scared of showing that. 

He looks down at Taron, who lets out a loud, obnoxious snore just as he does so. _If he finds out who I really am, if he finds out about how broken I am, he’ll be gone. It’s too much to deal with. I wouldn’t blame him._ He presses a kiss softly to Taron’s temple, and a small smile twitches at Taron’s lips in his sleep. Richard smiles back, sadly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there's not a ton of action in this one and it's kind of short but I really just needed some flowery, over-the-top fluff? Idk I suck


	6. Chapter 6

The early morning sunlight filters in softly through the semi-parted curtains, bathing both of them in the warm glow of the sunrise. Richard’s arm is around Taron tightly yet soft at the same time, a gentle possessiveness that says _you’re mine, no one else’s,_ but it isn’t dangerous. It is the kind of affinity that speaks of being chosen, not owned, and it is the greatest feeling in the world for Taron. Lying in bed, Richard’s arm around him, his head nestled gently into the soft place on Richard’s neck; Taron can never remember feeling like this. 

Sometimes words aren’t needed, and they lay in bed like this for a while and watch the sun rise. It’s beautiful, and simple, and Richard has never been this close-physically, emotionally-to another man before. He’s never been in a relationship like this, one that makes him yearn to be better, to be whole. He’s never watched the sun rise while rubbing lazy circles behind his partner’s shoulder blades, saying nothing. He can feel Taron’s heartbeat, they’re so close. 

After a while, a a tiny grin slips its way onto Taron’s face, and the smallest chuckle escapes. “We’re laying in bed watching the sun rise...I can’t believe what a sap you’ve turned me into,” Taron says softly, another tiny chuckle following. Richard smiles and buries his face into the soft fuzz of Taron’s hair, cut short for _Rocketman_ , barely anything there. 

“Love you,” Taron murmurs, and it’s not the first time he’s said it, but he always says it like that, soft and slow and earnest. Taron jokes about almost everything; there’s always a smile on his face. When he shares what he really feels, Richard’s noticed, he’s quiet. The words are present and they have meaning, but he can’t help but say them softly. Every time Taron tells Richard he loves him, it feels like he’s been punched in the gut. Not because it doesn’t feel good, but because it feels _so_ good. Too good. He feels undeserving, unworthy, of having this beautiful boy-whose smile lights up a room, who remains entirely humble despite having enough talent to be the cockiest bastard out there-love him. 

“I love you, too,” Richard says, his voice muffled. He kisses the top of Taron’s head gently. 

“You give me _butterflies_ , you know? How the hell did you manage to sneak into my life and do that?” Taron asks teasingly, looking up at Richard and grinning. Richard just answers with a small shake of his head and a matching smile. He’s feeling quiet that morning, contemplative. 

The smile drops gently off of Taron’s face, though, and Richard looks at him, concerned. “Something on your mind, love?”

Taron shrugs. “I just...I get the feeling that you’re hiding a part of yourself from me. I don’t know why.” 

Richard freezes, his hands stopping their slow, smooth circles on Taron’s shoulders. Taron looks up at him, concern displayed on his face. Richard’s heart is hammering in his chest, the feeling of panic igniting. 

He thought that over the last few months he’s done a fairly good job at hiding his anxiety from Taron. He tells him he’s going for a run, and then paces the length of his own hotel room, alone. He tells Taron that he has to go to the bathroom, and he picks at his skin and takes deep, shaky breaths. When things get really bad, when his mind is on full, circular spinning, he tells Taron he’s exhausted, discreetly takes a Xanax and crashes in their bed. He’s felt guilty about it, sure-it is, after all, a huge part of his life, something that is real and affects him every day-but he knows that it’s all too much for him to handle. Telling Taron that he suffers from soul-crushing anxiety that he’s not trying to fix-anxiety that paralyzes his life but that he doesn’t feel like he has the strength to do anything about-would be revealing a vulnerability that would be a deal-breaker. 

At least, that’s how it feels. 

And he knows, deep inside, in that part of him that he refuses to acknowledge, that the anxiety is getting worse. He can barely eat anymore, and his sleep patterns are erratic at best unless they’re pharmaceutically enhanced. That tiny, annoying part of his brain chirps at him that it’s because he’s lying and keeping secrets from a man who loves him, a man who _he loves_ more than anything. He tells that small voice to shut the hell up.

“I-I’m not hiding anything from you, love,” Richard says shakily, tightening his grip around Taron’s shoulders. 

“Are you sure? Because you can tell me, Rich, anything, whatever it is,” Taron says reassuringly, slipping out of Richard’s arms and sitting up to look at him properly. He reaches out a hand and gently strokes Richard’s face with his thumb, but Richard jerks away from it. A flush rises to Taron’s cheeks, and he moves his hand away quickly. Richard can feel the wild fear in his eyes, and hopes that T can’t see it, and he reaches out and grabs Taron’s hand, squeezes it. 

“There’s nothing, I swear,” Richard says, firmly this time, making sure his voice isn’t shaking. He leans over and drops a kiss on the side of Taron’s mouth. “I’m going to take a shower. Make the coffee?” he asks, and Taron nods slightly. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Taron stands at the coffee maker, he listens to the shower running and actively stops himself from going in there and demanding an explanation. He may be a naturally goofy, over-the-top guy, but he’s no idiot. He knows that Richard isn’t sharing something with him, and it’s both maddening and upsetting. 

It drives him mad that something’s wrong and Richard won’t let him help fix it. Richard’s thinner than normal, he’s pale, he’s shaky. Taron wants to gather him in his arms, kiss him, make it better. It’s his first instinct. 

Yet here he stands, in their tiny hotel kitchen, folding the paper filter, pouring in the coffee grounds, pressing the ‘on’ button and watching it drip into the pot. He goes back into the bedroom and lays out a pair of jeans and a black t shirt, ready for Richard when he gets out of the shower. He pours himself a bowl of cereal and flops on the couch instead of doing what he really wants to do and demanding answers. He knows that sooner or later, the truth will come out. He can feel it. He just doesn’t know what it will mean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay in update on this one, but I hope you enjoyed :) thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

Two days after Taron’s told Richard that he feels like he’s hiding something, he finds himself in a familiar situation. He’d been making dinner-spaghetti-and listening to music. Things had been fine, he was completely calm, he’d been having a good day. And then, suddenly, they weren’t. He’d been stirring the sauce, smiling, when his brain started to whisper about how the Big Scene was coming up, and how much pressure it was going to be, and how he was bound to fuck it up. Not only that, but the added pressure now of dating Taron, and the pressure that brought to the scene. 

_ I’m going to fuck it up and then T will never speak to me again. Which is par for the course, y’know, can’t believe he hasn’t left me yet.  _

And then his hands were shaking and he couldn’t focus, couldn’t do anything but slide the pot off the stove and turn off the burner and barricade himself in the bathroom, which is where he’s at now. He’s sitting in the bathtub, his knees pulled to his chest, his face buried into his legs. He tries to take deep breaths. He tries to tell himself that his brain is lying. He tries to focus on the things around him that are tangible, to stop from dissociating. He does everything he knows how to do to help himself, aside from taking a pill or two, because Taron will be home soon, and he can explain an uncooked meal but he can’t explain why he’s either loopy or passed out in bed at 6pm. 

_ Thank God Taron’s not here _ , he thinks to himself as his brain continues to race. He knows that Taron is suspicious that something’s wrong, and seeing his boyfriend hiding in the bathtub will certainly solidify that thought. Rich settles for chain-smoking, his nervous habit and something that usually calms him down. He smokes cig after cig, and it finally starts to help. He’s just starting to think that maybe he can get out of there and finish cooking when he hears the front door slam and the rattle of Taron arriving home. 

“Rich? Where are you?” Taron calls moments later, and he hears the clatter of the saucepot. It’s only a matter of time before…

“Are you in there, Rich?” Taron’s knock on the bathroom door sounds as loud as a gunshot to Richard, and he scrambles up in the bathtub, sitting up straight. He pitches the last cigarette into the toilet. 

“Yeah, be out in a second!” he calls, hoping his voice doesn’t tremble. He flushes the toilet and washes his hands, then opens the door. 

Taron is standing outside of it, his head tilted just slightly, his face scrunched up in concern, his arms crossed over his chest. Richard offers him a shaky smile and steps forward, kisses him on the cheek. “Hey, sorry dinner’s not done yet.” 

“What were you doing?” Taron asks quizzically. 

“Going to the bathroom, a’course,” Rich says, trying-and failing- to sound nonchalant. 

“Why were you smoking?” Taron asks, looking behind him to the bathroom. 

“Just fancied one, I guess,” Richard mutters. 

“You said you weren’t going to smoke anymore,” Taron says, looking at Richard with confusion.

Richard shrugs. “I slipped, nothing more to it.” He gives Taron another small smile and pushes past him, walks back towards the kitchen. 

“Conversation’s not over, darlin’,” Taron mutters, following Rich. “Don’t walk away.” 

“Well, there’s nothing else to say, Taron. I was going to the bathroom, I decided to have a cigarette, what’s the big mystery?” Richard asks harshly, turning the heat back on the burner and moving the sauce back onto it. _ Bollocks, it’s ruined _ , he thinks as he stirs it. 

“You seem upset.” 

“I’m fine,” Richard says urgently, an edge to his voice, dumping the sauce out. “We’ll have to get a pizza or something for dinner, I fucked this up.” 

“I don’t care about dinner, I care about you,” Taron says quietly, reaching out and grabbing Richard’s hand. “Hey, look at me.” 

Richard looks up, finally meeting Taron’s eyes. The worry and concern that’s magnified in them is like a punch to the gut, makes him want to throw up right then and there. It’s what he’s been afraid of all this time, of worrying Taron, of him realizing how weak he is. He’s getting there, he’s understanding, and he hasn’t even seen Richard in the throes of it, he just has his suspicions. Rich is determined to erase that look in Taron’s eyes. He reaches out and wraps his arms around Taron, pulling him tight. Taron buries his face into Richard’s shoulder, breathes in the scent of him. 

“Hey, I’m fine. There’s no reason to worry. I’m a little stressed, so I had a cig. No big deal. I promise I won’t anymore, okay?” Richard rubs reassuring circles on Taron’s back, and feels the relief settle onto Taron’s body like a well-worn overcoat. He relaxes in turn, knowing instinctively that he’s weaseled his way out of this one. When he pulls away, Taron’s typical cheerful smile has eased its way back onto his face, and Rich’s heart finally stomps thumping and his stomach stops churning. All is well. 

“I’m glad you’re good. But if you need to talk, you can always talk to me, you know?” Taron says, reaching out and grabbing Rich’s hand, squeezing it tight. Richard nods and hopes the smile on his face is one of confidence and appreciation. He hopes his body language is conveying that he’s okay, that there is nothing to worry about. Taron leans up slightly and kisses Richard gently, and he relaxes further. His secret’s safe, for now.

\--------

The night before the Big Scene, Richard is so nervous he feels physically ill, but he manages to hide it from Taron, who’s excited about rolling around with his boyfriend on set all day. They’ve still not told anyone about their relationship, but Taron is shit at hiding things and Rich is certain that some people are cottoning on. Jamie and Dex, most likely. 

Regardless, Richard is terrified. This is the big one, the one where he’ll be most vulnerable, and he knows how he can get after those scenes. He doesn’t sleep that night, and when he does, it’s broken and choppy and full of fear. Taron sleeps as he usually does, like the dead. The boy sleeps with his arm thrown over his head, his chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths, looking slack-jawed and soft. Richard turns and faces away from him, riding his anxiety in waves, wondering what the next day will bring.

\------

By the time he and Taron arrive on set the next day, he’s so on edge that he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to make it work. But, as usual, once he gets there he manages to fake it. He feels so outside of himself, so disconnected, that it’s as if he can see himself from the outside. He’s smiling and laughing, joking around with Jamie, looking patient, when on the inside he’s screaming. He’s exhausted and scared and wants nothing more than to curl back up in bed and sleep for a thousand years. 

The scene takes hours to film. Dex wants it to be perfect, and so does Taron, and so does he, really. Richard knows how important this is, and he pushes himself beyond anything he’s done so far. He is vulnerable and open and even though it’s Taron, it’s  _ his  _ Taron, he feels like he’s going to crack in half.

When they’re done, Dex claps him and Taron on the back, congratulates them on a job well done. He can’t feel any pride in what he’s done, can’t feel anything except the need to escape. “You did amazing, love,” Taron says, giving him a soft kiss. Dex cheers and so does Jamie, and Richard hears a rousing round of “I knew it!”s and clapping. Taron is grinning broadly, and even though Richard isn’t mad about people knowing and they’ve never outright discussed it, it is all just  _ too much _ . He pushes away from Taron roughly, ignoring the startled look on his boyfriend’s face, and goes to get changed. 

“Rich, what’s--” he hears Taron say, but he ignores him.

He takes a cab back to the hotel and goes to his own room, somewhere he hasn’t spent much time lately. His whole body is shaking, his blood is rushing in his ears, he can hear his heart slamming in his chest. He tries to light a cigarette but his hand is shaking too badly from the nerves. Tears are snaking down his cheeks and he doesn’t bother to wipe them away.

He crawls slowly into bed and throws the covers over his entire body, blocking out the sunlight, blocking out everything. It is all he can do. When he’s like this, especially after a scene, it’s all he can do. He doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t think. He shuts down his brain and just stares, unthinking, unfeeling. 

He doesn’t register the door to his hotel room opening, or the sound of Taron’s voice. “Love?” Taron calls as he moves throughout the suite. He finds Richard quickly, standing in the doorway to his bedroom and seeing his still form under the covers. “Rich, are you alright?” Taron asks in a low voice. There’s no answer. 

“Rich. Rich!” Taron says insistently, a tiny hint of frustration creeping into his voice. He sits on the edge of the bed and slowly peels the covers back a bit. “What’s going on?” he asks, seeing Rich just staring off into space. Still, he says nothing. 

Taron reaches over and lays a hand on Richard’s shoulder. He squeezes it, gently, in a way that he hopes is reassuringly. “What’s going on, Rich? What happened?” he says, his voice low and soothing. It elicits no reaction from Richard, though. “You’re scaring me, love. Please answer me.”

Silence.


	8. Chapter 8

Taron’s pleading with Richard falls on deaf ears, as the man he loves lies in bed and says nothing. His eyes are glazed over, half open, as Taron tries every method he can think to get Rich to snap out of it, with increasing urgency. He simply asks- _ Rich, what’s going on, what’s happened? _ -and then he tries to be stern- _ Richard, this isn’t funny anymore, answer me _ \- and then, finally, he begs- _ Rich I swear whatever it is we can fix it please you’re starting to scare me _ \- and the only thing Richard does is draw the covers back over his head. 

After a long while, Taron leaves him and wanders out to the adjoining room. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he doesn’t want to be far away if Rich snaps out of...whatever-this-is and needs him. He goes to the kitchen and cracks open a beer, then flops himself on the couch. What had happened to Rich? Everything had seemed fine on set, the scene had gone terrifically, everyone is thrilled. Then Richard had left so abruptly, saying hardly a word, and now here he is. Laying in bed, saying nothing, not even seeming to see or notice him. He drinks his beer and wracks his brain for a way to help him, but he comes up short.  _ There’s nothing I can do if I don’t know what’s wrong _ , he thinks, but he feels inadequate. He feels small and scared, and he doesn’t like it. 

He finishes his beer, then another, in silence. He doesn’t turn on the telly or play any music in case Richard’s fallen asleep. He doesn’t read a book or scroll through his phone because his brain feels like it’s running a million miles a minute. After he finishes his second beer, he goes to check on Rich again, and for a moment he feels better upon seeing that Rich has come out from under the covers. He’s just staring off into space, though, at nothing, and tiny pinpricks of anxiety run down his own spine. 

Taron eases his weight onto the bed and lays a hand gently on Richard’s back. He rubs it in slow circles. “Richie?” he says quietly, and this time he’s not surprised when he doesn’t say anything. “D’you think you can sit up and tell me what’s wrong?” The words drop from his mouth and land on the bedspread, absorb into the cotton and do absolutely nothing. Richard is still silent and instead of waiting it out, Taron goes to the kitchen. He returns with a glass of water and sets it on the night stand by Rich’s head. 

“There’s some water for you, you should drink it,” Taron says. He wants desperately to wrap his arms tight around Rich, kiss his forehead, murmur soft words in his ear until whatever’s happening is over. But he has a strong feeling that that would only make things worse, so he does what he can. He leaves the water, and he draws the curtains closed; the late evening light is spilling into the room, and it’s harsh, and it will be dark soon. He grabs the pillow from his side of the bed and a spare blanket from the bureau drawer and then he leaves, shutting the door gently, muttering an “I love you,” as he leaves. 

After he leaves the room, Taron eats a haphazard dinner of cold pizza and lukewarm water from the tap, standing up in the kitchen and eating over the sink. The food sits like a rock in his stomach, and before he knows it he is weeping, he is holding cold, greasy pizza in his hand and there are dishes in the sink and he is sobbing, because he doesn’t know what’s wrong and he doesn’t know how to fix it and that’s what he does, he  _ fixes _ things, and the love of his life is lying in the other room and he’s broken and Taron can’t fix him. He isn’t allowed to fix him. 

When he’s done crying, Taron drinks another glass of water and then does up the few dishes. He wipes down the counters, he stacks the plates. He makes it look presentable. Then he makes up a bed on the lumpy sofa, burying his face into the pillow. He thinks that sleep will elude him tonight, but it doesn’t. He is mercifully, kindly catapulted into a dreamless sleep, a state that he enters gladly. 

Taron doesn’t hear the shake of the prescription bottle as Richard shakes out a pill and downs it with the water on his nightstand. Rich drifts off, too, into a medicated sleep that he hopes he doesn’t wake up from, yet still knowing that he will.

\-------

The sun filters in through the curtains and splashes across the bed. It wakes Richard up, and he feels foggy, the way he always does the morning after a Xanax. His mouth is dry, and he reaches over and drinks the last of the glass of water. He feels better, more like himself, than he had yesterday, the tentacles of his anxiety having loosened their grip during the night. He lays there for a moment, thinking of nothing but the relief of being able to shake the episode. 

It always scares him when he shuts down like that. It is truly involuntary, his anxiety so high and his depression kicking into overdrive. It is an act of self-preservation if he’s ever seen one, but it’s scary nonetheless. It reminds him of how bad he truly is, how out of control he is. It can come from something, like the scene yesterday, or it can come from nothing. Even the things it  _ does  _ come from are not as bad in the light of day.

_ Why was I so upset? _ He wonders idly. The scene had gone well, everyone was happy. And yet, for some reason, he wasn’t. His feelings of inadequacy, of being seen, truly seen, had pushed him over the edge. He can’t explain it if he wanted to, the need to just shut down and be silent for a while. He has never  _ had _ to explain it before, but, he realizes slowly, this time he might have to. He remembers that Taron had been there, Taron had seen him, and the tentacles of his anxiety slowly tighten their grip. 

His memories from last night comes in bits and pieces, still foggy from the pill he’d taken, but he knows that Taron has never seen him that way before, because he’s always been careful. It’s true that yesterday he couldn’t help it, couldn’t do anything beyond exactly what he’d done, but he has worked so hard over the last couple of months to hide this part of him from Taron. 

He looks at the clock and sees that it’s already past noon. He’s hungry and thirsty and has to use the bathroom, and these things bring him back to the fact that the world does keep turning, no matter what you’re feeling. He rolls out of bed, slowly, and twenty minutes later he’s showered and in clean clothes. He leaves the bedroom, intent on finding Taron but on getting something to eat first, thinking that Taron’s probably in his own room, thinking there was no way Taron had spent the night at his without crawling into their bed and wrapping his arms around Richard and trying to make it all better. 

He is brainstorming lies, reasons for Taron not to be concerned, when he comes out of the room and sees Taron sitting on the couch. He registers, briefly, the pillows and blankets that are bunched up in a heap on the other end of the couch. Taron’s hair is rumpled and he looks exhausted, as though he’s had a solid hour of sleep and is feeling it. He is staring blankly at the television, which is muted and playing some unknown home renovation show, but when he hears the bedroom door creak open, his eyes flick up and meet Richard’s. 

“Hey,” Rich says softly, his voice cracking slightly. The word sounds stupid and unnatural between them. 

“Hey,” Taron answers back, blinking up at him evenly. Rich can’t place a single emotion in Taron’s voice, but he knows there’s no anger, which is what he has really been afraid of. “Are you hungry?” 

Richard nods immediately, his stomach letting out a low growl of affirmation. 

“I’ll make you something, then,” Taron says, and does just that. Bacon, eggs, and orange juice wind up in front of him before long, and he’s used the time that Taron was cooking to convince himself that he’s just imagined that Taron saw him yesterday.  _ Even if he did, maybe he thinks that I was sick, _ Rich convinces himself.  _ Yes, that must be it.  _

He tears into his breakfast and is almost finished when Taron finally says it. “So, you know we have to talk about yesterday, right?” His words are spoken softly but there’s a firmness behind them, and when Rich looks up, he sees the sternness written all over his face. His heart trips in his chest. 

“I was sick, I’m sorry. Think I may have eaten something bad. I’m feeling a lot better now, clearly,” he says with a practiced grin. It’s his only defense, the lies and the smiles and the practiced quality of pretending to be fine when he’s not. It’s how he has gotten through all of his adult life, and it’s always served him well. Rich puts his plate in the sink and sits on the couch with finality, feeling as though the matter is settled. 

Until now. “That’s not true,” Taron says, joining him on the couch.

“Yes, it is.” 

“Don’t lie to me! I don’t deserve being lied to. Not when I’ve lain up half the night worrying about you, wondering if I should call someone. I tried forever for you to answer me and you wouldn’t. You scared me, Rich, and I want to know what’s going on. Please,” Taron pleads, and he aches, physically aches, from seeing Taron look the way that he does. He looks devastated and scared and frustrated, and _ look what I have done to him. Look what I have caused.  _

He reaches out and grabs Taron’s hand, squeezes tightly. “Please don’t be upset. I’m sorry. It really is nothing, love, I swear. I just...sometimes when I get upset, I shut down a little, and I just need some time to myself. That’s it. I’m sure you understand.” 

Taron pauses for a moment before answering. “I...I get wanting to be alone, Rich, but this was...you wouldn’t answer, you wouldn’t look at me, you weren’t even there, really. You were gone somewhere. This wasn’t normal, Richie, and it scared me.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Rich said quietly. “I didn’t, I swear. My anxiety, T, it’s...higher than most. Sometimes I shut down, sometimes I have panic attacks, you know, it happens. I’ve been dealing with this for years. Most of the time, it’s just pacing and sweaty palms and my heart racing, tiny stuff, I can deal with it,” Rich says, and his secret is out and it’s what he’s been fearing this whole time. 

“Those aren’t tiny things, Richie,” Taron says slowly, unable to believe that this is something he deals with so often that he has reduced these things to normalcy.

“Yes, they are, it’s fine, really. What happened yesterday doesn’t happen often, I swear. When I have a particularly rough scene, though, sometimes it gets bad and I shut down like that.  _ Fuck _ , I never wanted you to find out,” Rich says, the words all coming out fast and frustrated. 

“This is what you’ve been hiding from me. I’ve known from the beginning that there was something you weren’t telling me,” Taron says, and still, there is no anger, just disappointment and fear. “Why didn’t you think you could tell me?”

“Oh, love, it’s not that I didn’t think I could tell you. It’s just not something I’m proud of, and I didn’t want to seem weak to you,” Rich admits, chewing on his lower lip, the anxiety running through his blood as if it was reminding him that it was in control. 

Taron’s arms are around Richard in a heartbeat, pulling him close. Rich lays his head on Taron’s shoulder, marveling at how soft and strong he feels, all at the same time. He rubs slow, lazy circles on Rich’s back, buries his face in Richard’s light curls. “Listen to me. You are not weak for this. You are not weak or broken. And I am not going anywhere, no matter what.” 

Tears have formed in Richard’s eyes because this is not what he has been expecting to happen when he has pictured this moment. He has seen Taron slam the door in revulsion so many times in his mind that part of him is unable to believe that instead he is holding him and comforting him through this. It’s what he’s wanted, but not dared to hope for. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” 

“There’s never any reason to apologize to me, love. I’m not going to leave you because you’re struggling. I’m going to be here for you, and we can get you some help from a professional,” Taron says, and he offers Rich a smile when his head snaps up upon hearing the second part of his sentence. 

“I don’t need help,” Rich says urgently, and T’s smile drops off his face. 

“Darling, you didn’t see yourself yesterday. It was downright scary. We’ll just find you a doctor, someone to talk to, and it won’t be a miracle cure, but it’ll help,” Taron says, furrowing his brow. 

“I don’t need anyone to talk to. This is just something that happens to me, that’s all. It’s just something I have to deal with,” Rich says, pulling himself away from Taron a bit. 

Taorn pauses, searching Rich’s face for some clue that he was joking, or to gauge how serious he was. “Rich. Your suffering is not deserved. It’s not beautiful or poetic or romantic. It’s sad and difficult and heartbreaking, and you need to get help. You don’t deserve to struggle like this,” Taron says urgently.

Rich is unable to look at him, instead opting to focus on his shaky hands when he speaks next. “I don’t need help. I have this under control. And it’s  _ my decision _ .” 


	9. Chapter 9

The night air is cool on Taron’s skin, and he turns his face towards the breeze, letting it blow through his short hair. He is sitting on the patio of a pub, he’s not even sure which, nursing a beer and trying to focus on anything but what’s going through his mind. 

Which is Richard. It’s always Richard, lately, but not in the way it used to be. Taron used to revel in the way his mind was always on Rich. He would drink in everything about him, so he could save it in his mind, lodge it there for safekeeping. Whenever he was alone, he would think of the ocean blue of Rich’s eyes, the sharpness of his jaw, the muscles of his thighs, the soft skin of his hands. 

Those used to be the thoughts of Rich that filled his head. They had kept him warm, held him tight, made him feel special. He’d felt like the luckiest man in the world, to be chosen by Rich. He’d never felt chosen before, not in all of the relationships that he’d had. He’d felt loved, of course, and wanted. Without a question, he’d felt those things from people in his life, in his past. Richard had been the first one to make him feel  _ chosen _ , however, and it was different and exciting and fulfilling, more than anything. To know that you were the one person someone was choosing, day after day, to be with was something he’d never known he was missing.

_ Those were the days, _ he thinks now as he drinks his beer in the little pub with the night sky around him, inky black and forgiving. This night doesn’t care that he’s being maudlin and sentimental. This cool breeze doesn’t mind his weepy ruminations on his relationship, and this beer certainly doesn’t care.

The happy thoughts of Rich have since been replaced with worries, fears, frustrations, even anger on occasion. Images of Rich’s hands and legs and heart have been replaced with questions, an ever-present wondering.  _ Is he okay? What is he doing? Does he need help? Is he walling himself off? _ He can no longer trust the seemingly-confident ‘ _ yeah, T, I’m fine _ ’s that come out of Rich’s mouth on an almost daily basis, and sometimes it drives him insane. 

Taron has done his best over the last few months to keep his promises to Richard that he’d made the day he found out about everything. He has been supportive and brave and there for him, in a way that both comes naturally to him while also feeling completely wrong. It feels natural because of course this is what he would do for the man he loves.  _ Of course _ he will turn on soft music when he needs it and cook him his favorite meals and bring him glasses of water and ignore the curls of cigarette smoke that give away Rich’s nasty coping skill.  _ Of course _ he will give him distance when he needs it and hold him tightly when he needs it. These are things he does not give a second thought to doing. 

But while he does it all, it also feels wrong, because he knows that doing these things are merely band-aids to a gaping wound. Taron is not fixing Richard or helping him in any meaningful way beyond the moment. He can’t, he is not a doctor, he doesn’t know what to do. And Richard still adamantly, angrily, stubbornly refuses to talk to a therapist. 

He broaches the subject whenever he feels it is safe, usually on weekend mornings after he’s made pancakes or on long evening drives. He waits until they are both calm and then he sprinkles it into the conversation-Thought anymore about going to therapy?-and pretends like he’s not on pins and needles. His excuses for why not range wildly from being afraid of the media finding out all the way down to not needing it because there  _ is _ no problem. 

“Some people are just wound tighter than others, Taron,” Richard has told him on more than one occasion, and it takes everything in Taron not to snap that there’s being  _ wound tight _ and then there’s not sleeping for thirty-six hours while your hands shake and you pace the flat. There’s  _ wound tight  _ and then there’s breaths that won’t come in a chest that feels as though there’s a rubber-band around it. 

Taron has hoped that wrapping on  _ Rocketman _ would have helped Richard’s anxiety (well, he had hoped that it would make it disappear but even he knew that was too much to ask for) but it hasn’t, not really. If anything has changed, it’s been that the abundance of free time has brought out more of Rich’s depression. He spends more time laying in bed or thumbing through his social media aimlessly, he hates eating, he sleeps either excessively or not at all. Now that Taron’s done with filming as well, he’s around more, he notices more. He feels like he’s going nuts, analyzing Richard’s every move, and he knows that Rich feels the same. 

The only thing it makes him want to do is bring it up more, and the more he brings it up, the more agitated Richard gets. It’s what has happened tonight, it’s why he’s here, alone, drinking and sulking. Over dinner Taron had broached the subject again-maybe we can ring a doctor this week, set up an appointment?-and the explosive anger that it had provoked in Rich had more than startled him. 

He can still see Richard’s fists slam down on the table, hear the rattle of cutlery as his knotted hands strike the table. He can still see the pink twinge in Rich’s cheeks and the steely glint in his bright blue eyes. 

“For  _ Christ’s sake _ , Taron, if you can’t handle this, then just  _ leave _ !” Rich had screamed at him, his words feeling as strong as if he’d raised a fist to Taron. “No one’s forcing you to stay! This is my life and I won’t be bullied into doing something that I don’t want to do! If you can’t handle that, then please,  _ please _ just go!” 

The rest of their dinner was eaten in stony silence, neither of them saying a single word. When they were done, Taron stood and cleared the plates, took them to the sink and started to wash them. After that, he had gone to the living room, where Richard was scrolling through his phone, and cleared his throat. 

“I’m going out for a bit,” Taron had said. 

“T, I’m so sorry,” Rich had said, his voice small and his face earnest when their eyes met. “No excuse for me talking to you like that, not ever.” 

“It’s fine, really. I just need to clear my head,” Taron had said, looking away from Richard’s eyes almost immediately after he’d met them. 

“Taron…” 

“I’ll be back in an hour or so,” Taron had said, and then he’d left. 

And that’s how he’s ended up here, and it’s time to go back, he knows that now. He feels calmer than before, but Rich’s words still sting when he thinks about them. They have made him think, for the very first time, that maybe he ought to end this. Maybe he wasn’t good for Rich, maybe he was making things worse, maybe he can’t do this. That was the real reason he’s needed this outing, this brief time away, because those thoughts scare him. Even during the depths of all this, he has never thought once about leaving T, and to think about it now is terrifying. 

But he sees now that Rich is just frustrated. Anyone would be. 

_ If I am patient, _ Taron thinks, throwing some cash on the table and standing up,  _ then he will see that I’m right. Hopefully.  _

\--------------

“I’m home, love,” Taron calls after he slides the key home into the lock and goes in. He had moved into Rich’s flat after wrapping on Rocketman, the transition unspoken and seamless, Rich pressing a freshly cut key into Taron’s hand, a soft kiss accompanying it. He thinks of the feel of the key, warm from being clutched in Rich’s hand, and the feel of Rich’s lips on his, almost every time he comes home. It reminds him of what’s waiting. 

“Richie?” Taron asks, and he hopes that they can make up, hopes that they can kiss and he can hold Richard tight. There’s no answer, though, and Taron walks through the flat looking for him. When he finds him, he almost wishes he was still gone, because the sight in front of him is terrifying. 

Rich is in living room, sitting on the couch and shaking horribly. He is breathing quickly, every breath sounding forced and painful, and he is pale, so pale. Tears stream down his cheeks, and he doesn’t look up when Taron arrives. 

Taron immediately kneels on the floor in front of Rich, looks him directly in the eye. “Rich, you’re having a panic attack, it’s okay. It’s okay, love, I promise.” 

Rich shakes his head violently back and forth. “No,” he spits out, and it’s all he can do. 

“It’s gonna be okay, baby, I promise, I’m right here,” Taron says, working hard at keeping his voice calm. He has only seen this a couple of times and as much as he wants to hold Rich tight, he knows it is not what he needs right now. “Tell me something you see, something you feel. Anything,” Taron urges. 

Richard continues to breathe heavily, but chokes out, “I...see…” but nothing more comes out.  _ It’s a bad one _ , Taron thinks, and he stands up and goes to get one of Rich’s pills. He passes it to Rich, who swallows it quickly. The knowledge of it helps, and Taron sits next to Rich on the couch, putting his arm around him tightly. They sit, quietly, neither of them saying a word as they wait, the only noise the sound of Rich’s panicked breathing. 

As the pill starts to take effect, Richard turns and buries his face into Taron’s chest. He lets himself cry, heart-wrenching sobs that are muffled by Taron’s sweater, and it is all Taron can do to not match him in intensity. Be strong, he thinks to himself, and he wraps his arms around Rich and holds him tightly. “You’re alright,” he murmurs softly, pressing a kiss on the top of Richard’s head. “I’m here, I’m right here.” 

After a few moments Taron hears something over the muffled cries, barely. “Please don’t leave me,” Rich chokes out and that’s when Taron finally acquiesces, finally allows himself to cry, too. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Taron says thickly, around his tears, trying to push out the guilty thoughts he’s had earlier in the evening. “I’m staying right here,” he promises, all the while knowing that neither of them can do this forever, not without breaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again with the kind of fluffy, over-the-top prose, lol. I know this fic has kind of changed along the way and evolved into something different, so if it isn't what you guys were expecting I'm sorry :/ thank you so much for reading, though, it means so much to me <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This chapter contains self-harm. Please take care and caution when reading this, and if this subject is triggering to you, you might want to skip it. <3

The flat is cold when Richard opens his eyes that morning. He shivers underneath the blanket, pulls it higher so it covers most of his head. His eyes can barely make out the time on the glowing digital alarm clock, and he sees that it’s already half past nine. Even colder than the flat is the expanse of bed beside him, mortifyingly empty, devoid of Taron. He has no idea how long his better half has been up, but he wants him back, desperately. 

Richard briefly considers the idea of staying in bed all day, pulling the covers over his head and disappearing. But, if he’s being honest, he’s been doing that an awful lot lately. Taron will come into their room and find Richard gone, huddled under blankets, amidst pillows, unwilling to come out no matter how much Taron cajoles. 

There are good days, of course. Days where he gets out of bed, and he smiles and laughs and even carries on real conversation. Where he eats enough food and goes for a walk and reads through one of the scripts that have clogged up his inbox. Days where he holds Taron’s hand and looks him in the eye.

And then there are days, like today, where he forces himself up, despite the overwhelming urge to do the opposite. He showers, he brushes his teeth, he eats meals. He makes trite, banal conversation but doesn’t mean a word of any of it. Those days are somehow worse, sometimes, then when he just stays in bed, because he can feel the strain it’s putting on Taron to recognize that it’s all an act and still say nothing. 

Christmas had been one of those days, the worst one. He’d cleaned himself up and put on the cheery sweater Taron had picked out for him, and his parents and Taron’s mum and sisters and some friends had crowded their flat, eating and drinking and laughing. Rich had participated, having conversations about nothing important that were like pulling teeth, drinking one too many whiskeys until the room had faded beyond a booze-filled haze. He’d ended the night in their bathroom, drunk, alone, huddled in the bathtub and chain-smoking cigarettes. When Taron found him, after the last guest had been kissed and hugged and bade farewell, he was annoyed. Rich had disappeared some time before and left him with the job of saying goodbyes and making excuses to his absence, and he pushed open the bathroom door, ready to give him an earful. He’d found Rich there, pressing the glowing tip of his cigarette to his wrist and grimacing at the pain, a perfect red circle joining one of its mates in a neat line. 

Taron had leaped into the bathroom and yanked the cigarette out of Richard’s hands and pitched it into the toilet. The _hiss_ of the butt going out in the water had been the only sound for a few minutes as the two men stared at each other. Finally, after the briefest of moments, Taron had found his voice again. 

“Are you out of your bloody mind?” Taron had shrieked, and Rich, still drunk, had tried to suppress a giggle at the high pitch of Taron’s voice. “Oh, I know you’re not laughing right now. What the _fuck_ are you doing?” 

“Relax,” Rich had mumbled, pushing Taron’s fumbling hands away as he began to try to clean the burn marks on Richard’s wrist. Taron’s grip tightened as he smeared burn cream from the medicine cabinet on them, and then he wrapped his wrist in a gauze. 

“I will not _relax_ , Richard, good Lord,” Taron had muttered, sitting back and staring at Rich, searching his eyes for something, anything, any explanation for what was going on. He was frightened at the lack of anything there, the emptiness of them, the lack of light. There had been more silence, and then Taron’s sad, broken voice. “Please, love, _please_ let me help you.” 

There had been no words after that, from either of them. Taron had helped him into bed, and they haven’t spoken of the facts of Richard hurting himself. In fact, they haven’t spoken much at all since, beyond perfunctory questions and answers. Rich had been afraid that this incident would’ve forced a more aggressive stance from T on the whole ‘finding a therapist’ front, but he has been suspiciously tight-lipped about it. It’s been just over a week, just after the new year, and he is surprised at how much can be said from the silence.

The burns have begun to heal, fading ever-so-slightly in the process. They are still red and they’ve begun to itch, leaving him wanting to pick at them constantly. He knows that they’ll leave scars, two perfect, round scars on his wrist, and his brain reminds him that even if he ever gets better (something he’s beginning to doubt more and more), he will always have these scars to remind him of what he used to be like. It is both distressing and comforting at the same time. 

He gets out of bed and showers, pulling on clean clothes and going out into the living room. He sees Taron, sitting on the couch and watching tv with the volume turned down; some cooking show that requires no effort to pay attention to. He looks up when Rich enters the room, and nods at him. “Pancakes in the kitchen if you want some,” Taron says by way of greeting, and resumes watching his show. 

Richard tentatively sits down on the couch next to Taron instead of going to get breakfast, not feeling hungry. “What are you watching?” he asks quietly, and Taron clears his throat. 

“Not sure what it’s called, everyone’s a terrible cook. It’s kind of funny,” Taron says, and the inane chit-chat between them is excruciating. Instead of saying that, though, Rich just nods. They watch in mutual silence for a while. 

When the program ends, Taron clicks off the tv and turns to face Rich. He searches Rich’s eyes, again, searches for something that he can’t name. He’s unaware of what he’s doing, but it’s his last test. He doesn’t find what he’s looking for, but he also doesn’t break his gaze. 

“I need to talk to you, alright?” Taron asks gently. He reaches out and takes Rich’s hand, pointedly taking the one that doesn’t sport the burns a little higher up. His eyes don’t waver from Rich’s, and Taron sees him nod, slightly. He takes a deep breath, feels it rattle slightly in his lungs. 

“I don’t even know where to begin.” Taron gnaws a bit on his lower lip. “Okay. This is really hard. I’ve been doing some thinking, and I think I’m going to head back to Aberystwyth for a little while. A couple of weeks, three at most. I need some time to be with my family, my sisters, be in Aber and just relax.” Taron spits most of it out as fast as he can, and it comes out a bit rushed. Its intent, however, feels crystal clear to Richard: _I am leaving. You are Too Much. This is over._

Since the moment that Taron had walked into the bathroom to see Rich hurting himself, he has been thinking about it. He has been thinking about that blank nothingness behind his eyes, the methodical way with which he was accomplishing his goal. It was as though he was doing it to someone or something else, instead of himself. It was the moment in which Taron had realized that this was bigger than himself. It was bigger than anything he could handle. 

At least for now. 

He has no intention of leaving Rich, _really_ leaving Rich in the permanent, moving his stuff, never speaking again, bitter way. But he needs a break. He needs the sandy shores in Aber, his toes buried in sand while he’s bundled in layers and cursing the wind. He needs his mother’s pot roast and his sisters’ giggles. He needs a warm fire that he can cozy up to while a movie plays in the background. He needs to turn off his brain and not think, and he knows this won’t happen completely, knows that he’ll spend at least some of the time worrying about Richard and thinking about him and wondering if he’s doing okay. 

But he needs to at least try, for his own sake. To keep from losing himself completely. 

“You’re going.” Richard says this slowly, and casts his eyes downward. 

“Just for a few weeks, promise.” 

There’s a moment of silence and then, a smile on Rich’s face. It’s fake and forced and they both know it. “Sounds good. Have a lovely time.” 

Taron sighs. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you’re not upset about it. It’s okay to be upset.” 

“I’m not pretending! I’m fine. I’ll be fine. You deserve to get out of here and have a good time,” RIch says, and Taron allows himself to believe it for a moment. Until: “I knew it would end this way eventually.” 

Taron’s heart sinks like a stone. “Richie, come on. Nothing’s ending, I swear.” 

“Listen, T, I know how hard dealing with me is. It’s why I tried to hide it from you as long as I could. I’m really bad right now and I know I’ve fucked us up. So if you have to go, I understand. I get it.” Rich says all this and he stares at his hands as they pluck at the couch cushions, feeling like they don’t belong to him, like they aren’t real. Taron reaches out and grabs one of them, and it shocks him slightly. 

Taron sighs again, and this isn’t going the way he’d hoped it would. “You’re not hard to deal with and you haven’t fucked _anything_ up. I swear it, love, I swear.”

“Then why are you leaving?” The words are out of Rich’s mouth before he knows it, and they’re full of anger and animosity, belying the cool tone of his words from just a moment before. “If I’m not hard to deal with and I haven’t fucked anything up, then why are you going?” 

“Because I...I just am. I just need it.” 

“If I hadn’t fucked anything up, you wouldn’t need it,” Rich said bitterly. “And you know it.” 

Taron is suddenly irritated, at the sulky tone in Rich’s voice, at the way he won’t meet his eyes, at the burns on his wrist, at the entire situation. “I’m going because I need a _break_ , goddammit! I’m not mad at you, I don’t want to leave you, I need a break because I _love you_ , and I’m not doing anything to help you. All I’m doing is watching as you self-destruct, Rich, and it’s killing me. I’m taking a break because I’m failing you and it’s absolutely killing me,” Taron says, and he’s crying now, crying _again_ , and sometimes it feels like that’s all he does. He ducks his head for a moment. “Seeing you like this is so hard, Rich. It’s too hard right now.”

He looks into Rich’s eyes, at the bags underneath them, and at how pale his skin is. This man he loves, wasting away. At least, that’s what it feels like. Taron doesn’t know what he expects Rich to say. He pictures, briefly, a tear-filled moment where Rich finally acknowledges how much he needs help, and then they all live happily ever after. 

But life is never that simple, it seems, and Rich’s face shows clearly that that’s not going to happen. Rich pulls away, and it aches, the absence of his hand in Taron’s. It aches. 

“I told you, go. Get out of here. I get it.” Rich’s words are cold and full of bitter disappointment and betrayal. They certainly don’t sound as if he _gets it,_ and Taron’s stomach churns with sadness, regret, his own disappointment. 

When he leaves a few hours later, suitcases in tow and bundled up in his winter coat, he pauses at the door. Rich had retreated back to their bedroom after their discussion without a word, and Taron hasn’t been able to coax him out since. He hates leaving on this note, but he has no choice, he has a flight to catch. He taps his fingers on the doorjamb, hoping to get Rich’s attention. 

“Got to go,” he says lightly, with no word from the man underneath the covers. Taron crosses the room and kneels down, meets Rich’s eyes. “I love you, okay? I’ll be home soon.” There’s still no word, so he settles for kissing Rich’s cheek gently and standing up. 

Taron leaves, and when Richard hears the cold, harsh _click_ of the door, he pulls the covers tightly over his head and tries to drive the sound out.


End file.
